


Like Home

by blueapplesour



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, No beta sorry, idiots to lovers, magical mishaps, minor Edelgard/Dorothea, minor spoilers for CF, sap, seriously very sappy, tags to be updated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueapplesour/pseuds/blueapplesour
Summary: Hubert’s warp spell is malfunctioning right into Ferdinand’s bedroom, and he can’t figure out why.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 58
Kudos: 381





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, Hubert is the only one surprised. 

That’s because Ferdinand, in all his recklessness, is dead asleep, hair splayed in a shower of tangled curls and lips parted in soft snores. 

Well. Being asleep in one’s own bedroom a few hours past midnight isn’t exactly reckless, not that Hubert makes a habit of it. 

Not waking up when a mage warps into one’s bedroom, even if that mage isn’t particularly certain how it happened, is. An abysmal threat to security. 

Ferdinand mutters something and rolls over, turning his back to the potential threat he doesn’t even realize is there. Hubert watches the rise and fall of his back for a moment, a rare shared moment in silence. He sits gingerly on the bed, giving Ferdinand one chance to save himself and his pride before Hubert’s accidental intrusion turns instructional. 

Ferdinand shifts, but doesn’t wake. How does he sleep so deeply? Hubert is never without the pressure behind his eyes and vague nausea that comes with denying his body rest. But Ferdinand denies himself nothing, and if Hubert is honest with himself, he wouldn’t have it otherwise. There is great satisfaction when Ferdinand is satisfied, be it the shine in his eyes when offered a favorite tea, or the vicious joy in snapping each others argument to shreds until only the best possible option remains. 

He places a hand on Ferdinand’s throat, heat of his skin seeping through thin leather gloves. Hubert bends close enough to smell the clean scent of his hair and the Morfis plum shampoo he favors, the slight lingering earthiness of the tea he drinks before bed.

“Sleep is no reason to leave yourself so vulnerable, prime minister.” His fingers lighten, ready to jump back at the blow that is surely coming. Even if the other man isn’t bright enough to keep a blade within arm’s reach (a fact Hubert intends to correct as soon as possible), Ferdinand’s fists are as solid as the rest of him.

The punch doesn’t come. His eyes do open, but they soften, their amber color lighting with what little moonlight seeps through the cracks above and between the drawn curtains. Of course Ferdinand would catch whatever glow the world offered. There is no scream, no strike; he tilts his head downwards against the fingers under his chin as if they are meant as a caress and not a threat. 

“Ah, then I suppose I am at your mercy.”

Flames, is he fluttering his eyelashes? Hubert snatches his hand from Ferdinand’s throat as if the warm skin is suddenly scalding. Every bit of him burns, and he is grateful that shadows love to drape him as much as light clings to Ferdinand.

Ferdinand’s eyes widen, suddenly, terribly awake. “Hubert,” he says, more of a gasp, as he sits up and pushes himself back, nightshirt falling to expose sharp collarbones and long legs kicking away blankets. Hubert’s hand twitches with the desire to fix the wrecked hair, and he loathes the fact that he is going to commit this specific look to memory, though he wouldn’t have those locks mussed from sleep. “You...you are in my bedroom.”

“Very observant, Ferdinand.” Hubert’s tongue is old bone-dry in his mouth. He is eager to move the conversation from any hint of whatever...whoever...was touching Ferdinand in his dreams. 

The prime minister’s hand flutters at his throat. “What, was this supposed to be some kind of lesson? We are well past school.” He sniffs and straightens out his nightshirt, an amusing attempt to maintain a touch of noble dignity. Even en deshabille. Even when his first reaction to Hubert gripping his throat in the middle of the night was...

“It seems it wouldn’t hurt you to learn a little more,” Hubert says in lieu of letting his thoughts get the better of his mouth. “What would happen if our Prime Minister got stabbed in his bed...”

“Which wouldn’t happen, because he knows damned well how many wards the minister of the imperial household has put on the place.” 

Hubert has known Ferdinand long enough to read the compliment in the rebuttal, and his lip quirks. “Still.”

“I am relieved to see you back, even unexpectedly. You disappear and reappear and I never have any idea when or...” He breaks off, eyes flicking downwards.

_Or if._ Hubert can read that, too.

“When you’ll return.” Ferdinand finishes. “I know you don’t expect to be worried about, but it is dreadfully irritating to prepare a pot of coffee and realize you’ve slunk off somewhere and then I have to drink it myself and complain to naught but empty air.”

The quirk blossomed into a genuine smile he hoped it was too dark for Ferdinand to see. “You have the option of not drinking it and not complaining, you know. Give it to someone else.”

“But it is yours....”

“Then why are you drinking it?”

“Because I prepared it, therefore it is mine, too, and I pay too damn much to waste it.” Ferdinand rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And I find a rare craving for the dank stuff coming upon me right now, for I am still so fuzzy I keep losing track of the main point. Which is, Hubert von Vestra, why are you in my bedroom at whatever cursed hour this is?” 

“Perhaps I simply picked up on your worries and thought I would alleviate them as soon as possible.”

Ferdinand’s chuckle warms him much like coffee, slow and sliding. “Hubert, my dear friend, that sounds precisely nothing like you.”

He chuckles in return. He could tell him, perhaps, that it was a miscalculation, some misfire in his magic. An accident, and by far not the worse outcome. 

But instead he thinks of Ferdinand’s steady, sleeping breaths.

_He knows damned well how many wards the minister of the imperial household has put on the place._

If Ferdinand’s faith in Hubert’s magic is any part of what lets him dream unbothered, Hubert won’t ...can’t...deny him that.

“It’s as you first guessed, Ferdinand. I was testing you. You failed.” 

A younger Ferdinand would have met those words with fire; this Ferdinand merely rolls his eyes and leans forward to push Hubert off the edge of the bed, though there’s no malice. His hand instead comes to rest lightly on Hubert’s leg. “A rigged test. Quite unfair. Ignoble, one might even say.”

“You would have been dead before you even opened your eyes.” He’s not proud of the touch of panic in the words, and if forces greater than him are merciful, Ferdinand will still be too sleepy to notice.  
“Here.” He slides a blade from his sleeve, perfectly weighted, perfectly poisoned. It takes a few more seconds to unstrap the inner sheath and slip it out without removing his shirt. Ferdinand, for his part, isn’t looking at the blade, his gaze entirely fixed on Hubert’s forearm.

“I thought you like weapons?” Hubert asks as he returns the dear thing to safety, tied so that it would not come unsheathed accidentally but would be quick to release when needed. 

“Yes.” Ferdinand’s voice is still distracted, and Hubert pokes his thigh with the covered dagger. It doesn’t do much against muscle honed from hours in the saddle.

Hubert tosses the blade next to Ferdinand and inches away. The last thing he needs to be thinking about at the moment is Ferdinand’s thighs. “Keep it under your pillow, and do not under any circumstances unsheathe it unless the situation is dire.” He could continue the lecture, extolling the virtues of the drops of gel-like fluid extracted from the Dagdan white-fleshed haworthia, the careful preparation it took to take the liquid from astringent to lethal. Ordinarily Ferdinand would listen with rapt attention and only a few suspicious glances at his cup as Hubert explained his various chilling discoveries over tea. At the moment, however, it seems like any further details would only serve as a lullaby. Ferdinand’s eyes are already half-closed again, valiantly as he tries to fight it. 

“Good night, Ferdinand.” Hubert stood and gave in to a slight temptation, reaching out and brushing a few loose strands of hair behind Ferdinand’s ear. “I will see you at the cabinet meeting in a few hours.” 

Ferdinand was frozen, face in an expression of dull-witted adoration Hubert previously thought reserved for his horse. He coughed and rose before any of it was catching. 

“You know, you should...”

“Lock the door behind you, yes.” Ferdinand joined him in standing. “And I also know you have a copy of the key, next time pray use it so I have a chance of hearing you come in.” 

Next time.

As maddeningly attractive as a disheveled Ferdinand is, Hubert will do his best to ensure there won’t be one.


	2. Like Home chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand has seen this before, when they were still dragging through the dark, repetitive carousel of war and every fight required everything had. He has seen Hubert wrung out to nothing but bone and determination, skin smudged like oil slick from dregs of dark magic, body breaking itself from the inside to track one more footstep on his bloody path. 
> 
> Ferdinand has been foolish enough to hope those days were past, but the war is only over for one of them.

The crash and scents of burnt magic and blood jolt Ferdinand from sleep, a soldier’s instinct sending him leaping before he can stop himself. His hand slides for the dagger beneath his pillow, but there is something familiar about the dark shape stumbling towards him, an outstretched gloved hand catching on the bed to prevent complete undignified collapse on the floor. 

“Hubert!”

Ferdinand grabs him before he can fall any farther, arms hooking under Hubert’s and dragging him forward. Something damp and primal seeps from Hubert’s side through the thin cotton of Ferdinand’s night shirt, staining them together. The mage gives a low groan as his head falls back, even his breath coming limp from his throat.

Ferdinand has seen this before, when they were still dragging through the dark, repetitive carousel of war and every fight required everything had. He has seen Hubert wrung out to nothing but bone and determination, skin smudged like oil slick from dregs of dark magic, body breaking itself from the inside to track one more footstep on his bloody path. 

Ferdinand has been foolish enough to hope those days were past, but the war is only over for one of them. 

“Hubert, stay with me now. Can you hear me?” 

There is a small gasp that sounds affirmative. Ferdinand can barely see, but he bunches his sheets around what may or may not have been a wound, and moves to get one of the small bottles of vulnerary stored in his dresser. It will help, at least until he can get some blasted light in the room, assess the damage, find whatever hallway or crawlspace Linhardt has collapsed in, and get Hubert some proper attention. 

“I’ve got some vulnerary here...does it expire? It was bottled before Fhirdiad, and does not smell quite right.”

Hubert groans in response, less a groan of pain than an instruction for Ferdinand to get on with it, and something in Ferdinand’s heart eases. This too, is familiar. Annoyance at Ferdinand’s tendency to embellish any sentence with approximately ten more words than the sentence requires has kept Hubert conscious more times than either of them will admit. 

“All right, open up now.” He tips the vial between cracked and bloody lips, lips thinning at the methane scent of Miasma still clinging to Hubert’s clothes. The mage’s breathing eases almost at once, though he makes no motion to move or speak. It’s enough for Ferdinand to feel comfortable stepping away to open the curtains. 

He immediately regrets it in the flood of moonlight. The eye he can see is purpled and swollen, jacket shredded with the aftermath of something clawed. The purple shadows make it hard to assess the full damage, but it’s enough to send Ferdinand’s heart to his throat and his hand constricting around an imaginary lance as a long-dormant battle rage simmers. “Oh Hubert...”

“I came out the better of it,” Hubert says, but even his blade-sharp smile reveals blood on his teeth, and the words come from a scalded throat. Ferdinand swallows, pulling away the sheets he’d forced into service as emergency bandaging. They’re spotted, but not soaked; the potion and pressure did their job.

“Let me get a better look at you.” Ferdinand begins to unfasten the dented snaps and half-torn buckles, lower lip between his teeth. In all the many times he has imagined this scenario, he’s imagined Hubert’s clothing...and Hubert himself...rather more in one piece. Smooth, pale skin shivering from desire and not blood loss. “The wounds are shallow, at least. Lie very still while I prepare some tea with enough sugar to make you wish you didn’t have teeth, and you are going to drink every bit without complaining.” With the physical wounds tended to, the next step would be putting something in his body to make up for the depletion. 

“For someone whose faith scores were terrible,” Hubert groans, shifting as Ferdinand slides his arms out, folds the remains of the jacket with a sigh. “you seem eager to play nursemaid.” 

“Do I have a choice? You elected to come here instead of to Linhardt, or...” Well, he knows why Hubert won’t appear before Edelgard in this state. He keeps her in the dark about many things that might alter her course, and perhaps the largest of his secrets is how often he bleeds like any other man. 

Everything about this smacks of the old Dagdan legend of the monkey’s paw. The tiny, competitive part of Ferdinand still wants something Edelgard doesn’t have; what he gets is Hubert’s pain. 

“I didn’t elect to.”

“What?” Ferdinand stills, hand on porcelain cups he has only just reached for. He only realizes he’s shaking by the rattle of ceramic on his wooden table.

“I didn’t elect to.” Hubert’s voice is stronger now as the vulnerary works through his system, and Ferdinand makes an absent mental note to replenish his supply. “I’ve messed something up, somewhere. It happened before.”

“Before?” His mind clicks. Three weeks ago, he had also awoken to find Hubert in his room, and since that night he’s felt the imprint of a dagger through his pillow like a caress. “Your warp spell is sending you here?” 

Hubert nods, and thankfully his eyes are closed, because for a moment Ferdinand gapes like a fish. 

“Well, I suppose that is not the worst possible misfire. You could have ended up with Caspar punching you in the face. Though you might also have found Linhardt, so maybe that’s where you should go.” Hubert doesn’t answer, and Ferdinand busies himself with the tea. He can’t quite focus on how long its been steeping, but with the amount of sugar being scooped in and Hubert’s disappointingly unrefined palate when it comes to appreciating a proper cup, he supposes it doesn’t matter. “Here.” 

“Disgusting,” Hubert complains before it has even wet his lips, then gags as Ferdinand upends the cup to stop any further protest.

“If you do not wish to drink ruined tea...” because even Ferdinand will admit that what he is forcing down Hubert is hardly fit to be called “tea” at all. “You will take better care of yourself, or see a proper healer, or take me with you next time.”

He doesn’t mean for that last bit to slip out. He especially doesn’t intend the bitter edge it came with. But the words are there, the feelings behind them true, and it would be ignoble to retract them.  
“You know we fought well together, and I’ve never let up on my training. I am as perfectly capable of bringing down our enemies now as I was then.” 

Hubert offers a slight shake of his head. “My war requires subtlety, Ferdinand. Not one of your more prominent qualities.”

The dark hides Ferdinand’s blush. Perhaps the words aren’t intended as a rebuke of his feelings- for all their arguments, Hubert has always avoided that particular punch. It doesn’t make it easier to hear the reminder that his feelings are always on display, a chink in his armor clearly visible, with only Hubert’s tolerance preventing an eviscerating strike. 

“Besides,” Hubert continues, “your duties are with the empire now. We’ve been crafted with different purposes, prime minister. Take your place as an ornamental jewel, let me be be the diamond-tipped blade. I work...better knowing you are here.” 

It is silencing, but not satisfying, a placation touching too close to old insecurities. But now, with Hubert drained and wounded, is not the time. “Well, you have been coaxed away from death’s door, so let me go find-”

“The sun will be up by the time you find him. You’ve done a fine job, Ferdinand. I need rest more than anything.” He starts to shift, and Ferdinand puts a hand on him to ease him back down. He swallows, staring at where tanned fingers meet indigo bruises and a pale shoulder. Surely they must have touched at other points, but his mind is blank, remembering only subtle brushes, body heat always tempered between cloth or leather. 

“At least stay here tonight,” he offers, selfish or selfless or some twisted intersection in between. 

“So you can keep an eye on me? I’m sure I can walk.”

He most certainly can’t. “So you don’t have to drag yourself across the palace looking like some creature from one of Bernadetta’s forays into horror writing.”

Hubert’s lip quirks, but he settles back. “She based that ghoul on me, you know.” 

“Well, write what you know and all that.” Should he tuck Hubert in? That seems more condescending than any of the rest of it, and he settles for removing the blood-soaked sheet and pulling a clean one out of the linen drawer. Tomorrow the whole set would have to go to laundry anyway- while he wouldn’t particularly mind sheets that smelled like Hubert, sleeping in the man’s blood was a touch morbid. 

“I’ll be on the sofa in the sitting room. If anything else unexpected happens, you’ll find a dagger under your pillow.” 

Hubert makes a non-committal noise, and Ferdinand pauses in the doorway for one more look. 

Hubert may have thought this a dangerous mishap, but Ferdinand is glad for it all the same. Now he knows what Hubert von Vestra looks like in his bed.


	3. Like Home chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A laugh escapes his throat and lands in Hubert’s heart. “Hubert, you are our spymaster, a man who I have seen read entire battle strategies in the raise of Edelgard’s eyebrow, and you had no idea that I am in love with you?”

“Hubert, I have a confession. About...this.”

This time Ferdinand is awake when Hubert appears, and he drops his book and startles at the litany of curses spilling off Hubert’s lips. 

Hubert has practiced this, all across the palace grounds, and ended up precisely where he’d meant to save one small mishap that sent him to the stables. He’d only had to stop the trials when he’d warped to Edelgard to deliver a report, and interrupted his lady and Dorothea- at least that was what he assumed, with Edelgard diving under her blanket and Dorothea screaming and throwing pillows. 

He supposes he is lucky it was pillows and not the ozone crack of Thunder, and he hangs his head appropriately when a rather more dressed and composed Edelgard later informs him that in the future he will knock or he will find other employment. 

And here he is in Ferdinand’s room yet again, as the sun sinks low in stripes of gold and violet through the window. Early enough they’re both clear-headed. But Ferdinand’s hair is braided and thrown over one shoulder, revealing too much of the neck Hubert can still feel under his fingers. 

“Do tell.” At this point even Ferdinand’s ideas are worth hearing out. 

Ferdinand’s amber eyes are painfully sincere. “I think I may have caused it.”

Hubert arches a dark brow. “Ferdinand, as I have mentioned, your magic scores were never very impressive. There is literally nothing you could do that would affect my spell work.” The thought that this might be some Agarthian trick occurs to him. 

But even that is ridiculous. If they could redirect his warp magic, he’d be chained in their frozen dungeons, not Ferdinand’s bedroom. 

Unless this is an even more underhanded manipulation, something to throw off his concentration, cast doubt on his peerless abilities. The crafty bastards.

“You see,” Ferdinand continues, toying with the end of his braid, “I wished for this. Sort of.”

“What?” Hubert has half a mind to scold him to stop messing with his hair like a school girl, but every tug jostles in a way that reveals a touch more skin, and Hubert is greedy enough to bite his tongue and add new bits to his mental picture of Ferdinand von Aegir. 

“Saints, this is embarrassing, but alright. It was when we were younger, at the Goddess Tower. I went on the night of the ball, and I was hoping you would meet me there, and....”

“Why?” Hubert interrupts, imagining their younger selves; the shorter, louder, altogether more irritating version of the man in front of him. Past Hubert would have sooner pushed him off the top than meet him inside, even if he feels a twinge about it now. But his current affections can only tint so many memories rose-colored and tolerable.

Ferdinand laughs, but there’s something cut inside it. “I don’t know, really. You used to berate me for every little thing, perhaps I just wanted to see if you would leave Edelgard’s side to tell me how ridiculous I was being.” 

Hubert can hear the airy lie. “And what does that have to do with now?”

“Well, when you didn’t, I turned to head back to my room I may have wished you would show up there instead.” Ferdinand’s skin is beginning to match his hair.

“You wished for me to show up in your bedroom and...berate you?” It was too early, too late, too something for this. The Brigidian delegate had presented Ferdinand with some kind of liquor infused with venomous snake at their last meeting, maybe that is what he needs right now. 

Ferdinand continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “And they say that wishes at the goddess tower do come true in the end, the goddess...”

“Did you miss when Aymr went through her skull?” Which isn’t exactly theologically accurate, but Hubert’s skin is twitching, urging him to bring the conversation back to familiar ground. “We fought a whole fucking war over those lies.”

“There could be some magic still around. People did believe it for centuries, plenty of circumstantial couples speak to the truth of it,” Ferdinand sniffs. “Anyway. There is my humiliating confession, if it helps at all.” 

“It really doesn’t, because I still don’t understand. I loathed you back then. If I’d gone to your room, we would have no doubt ended up in some petty argument over your conduct at the ball...” He could still see Ferdinand twirling Caspar in a tipsy approximation of a waltz, then his pathetic attempts to goad Hubert away from his lady’s side. When he’d finally stomped off in a huff, Hubert only remembers being relieved, if a little disappointed that the rest of the evening would be less eventful.

“I know. But we’d all been drinking, I thought you might...get irritated and follow me out and push me into a wall or something.” Ferdinand’s freckles are disappearing into his blush. “At eighteen I thought it was a very good plan to get your attention.”

“Even you have more sense than that, Ferdinand.” Bafflement is a foreign feeling, and Hubert wears it terribly. 

The other man sighs and pushes past him, returning his book neatly to his desk. “Let me heat some water, if you really are going to finally mock my infatuation, I’d like a cup of tea.”

“For once I’m not mocking anything...Your infatuation?”

Ferdinand pauses his preparations, face scrunched. “It is not as if this is new information, Hubert, you were already aware...” 

Hubert gapes, and Ferdinand’s hands fall from the teapot to the desk, bracing. “You were not aware.” A laugh escapes his throat and lands in Hubert’s heart. “Hubert, you are our spymaster, a man who I have seen read entire battle strategies in the raise of Edelgard’s eyebrow, and you had no idea that I am in love with you?”

Love? He can barely hear the rest of the speech over the fresh roar of blood in his ears, but Ferdinand continues. 

“You yourself have told me that I lack subtlety. Dorothea and Lorenz and even Bernadetta have caught on and are merciless, and you expect me to believe you never thought anything of the fact that I spend every moment of free time I have with you?”

Hubert certainly knows that when Ferdinand has a free moment, it involves chasing Hubert down, asking for company on a ride, or to tea, or in the gardens. The need to further dive into policy or maintain his riding skills should they be needed in service to his lady provided adequate, logical reasons for assenting. 

It had nothing to do with the heart-singing joy on Ferdinand’s face as they would race the open outskirts of Enbarr, either pulling up flushed and breathless and grinning as he claimed his victory, or with slightest pout and grudging congratulations the rare times Hubert managed to get by him. It has even less to do with the peace of the hours they spend over their respective cups, the way that even though Hubert has long since stopped having to look or calculate to prepare Ferdinand’s brew exactly, Ferdinand has yet to react with any less delight, and Hubert quietly hopes he never does. 

“I...I assumed it was because we were friends.” The word is as tripping as a foreign tongue on his lips. He had never had friends, never needed the company of anyone but Edelgard. And the word certainly doesn’t cover his feelings for Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand. Who loves him.

Ferdinand. Who loves him _back_. The thought floats on the surface of his mind, a raft struggling on a turbulent sea, refusing to give in to the depths.

There’s something soft and sad in Ferdinand’s smile. “We are. Before anything else, please know that we are.” He sighs. “But I am not sure how to stop this.”

Hubert straightens. “I have studied every form of magic on this continent, I promise you I will figure out a way...”

“Not what I was referring to, Hubert. But never mind.” Ferdinand takes a sip of the now-brewed tea, and Hubert catches a whiff of cinnamon. “Now, is there anything different about when the spell misfires, as opposed to when you end up where you were supposed to? You gave Rosina quite a fright. She’s not a mage horse you know, she’s not used to people popping up here and there.” 

That had been an odd one, and Ferdinand had made him apologize to the horse. “Generally when I cast to send myself home, that’s where I end up.”

A kernel of a thought appears, worming in his temple like a headache. 

In his practice he’d been exceedingly precise. In the midst of fleeing, or, he can admit, rare indulgence in laziness, less so. But even the time he’d ended up landing in a pile of horse shit with Ferdinand nearly unseated by his mare’s sudden spook, he’d been fighting exhaustion. 

Void take him, his magic had decided home was wherever Ferdinand was. 

It makes a twisted sense. During the war they were constantly moving. And when he sat down at the end of the day, to rehash the battles with Ferdinand, lick wounds and strategize and entertain themselves with rich arguments dragged out to grinds and makeshift chess sets made of scavenged stone, it was as close to comfort as they’d gotten in those five years. It still feels that way.

Ferdinand is gesturing and saying something about geography and ley lines, possibly the moon, but Hubert has stopped listening and started leaning. 

When they are nearly nose to nose, Ferdinand finally stops talking, except to whisper “Hubert?”

The raft capsizes, and Hubert’s lips find Ferdinand’s in a half-stumbled kiss, light enough that if Ferdinand himself needs to spook and bolt, he can. 

He doesn’t. Hands curl into Hubert’s jacket, a grip that tightens as Ferdinand’s lips part. Hubert smiles against them. Perhaps Ferdinand also feared that Hubert would be the one bolting.

When he pulls back to catch a breath, Ferdinand wears an expression of open shock, his hands still on Hubert and a slight glisten of saliva on his lower lip. The warring flashes of pleasure and concern in those amber eyes reminds him of the first time he’d ever paid Ferdinand a compliment. 

“I know how my affections fluster you, Ferdinand,” he says. “But this is something I really cannot put in writn-“ 

Before he can finish, Ferdinand’s hands are in his hair, pulling their faces back together with more passion than grace, and Hubert realizes his magic was more right than he knew. 

Home is more than where you are safe. It’s where you’re wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> My ao3 debut!! 
> 
> Edit: Thank you all for your kind comments! I'm so excited to write more for this pairing.
> 
> Find me on twitter as blueapplesour


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